He had enough hair on his face to shave it: she had seen him once or twice in the bathroom, in his towel. She had caught his eye in the mirror. Now his chin scratched her, his cheeks.
Her hands were frozen at her sides, in little fists. She had seen in movies that people touched each other’s faces, or bodies, while kissing, but a deep and paralyzing fear had come over her and she could not move.
He leaned forward and she fell back on her elbows.
He put his other hand on her, too, over the sweater that David had bought her.
She became aware of his physical size, something she had always found attractive, in a way that alarmed her.
Later, wishing it had been, wishing somehow to rewrite history, she would tell ELIXIR that fumblingly kissing William Liston on her bed had been romantic and exciting, the sudden unexpected fulfillment of all of her fantasies, better than anything she could have imagined. But this was untrue. If she had been honest, she would have told ELIXIR that kissing William Liston was halfway in between nice and not-nice. It stirred something in her, some ancestral memory of closeness and intimacy, some instinctual response. She had not been so physically close to another person since her infancy. She had rarely even been hugged. When she was older, she would remember the episode with a mix of pleasure and discomfort. The scratching of a man’s rough chin across her cheeks would shuttle her unstoppably into a sense-memory of William Liston, and for a pause she would recall, not unfondly, her own young longing for him and its unfortunate fulfillment. But now her brain was working too quickly, and her heart was pumping too fast, and she knew herself to be too young for this, or too young for him, and she was frightened and ashamed.
The muscles of her abdomen tensed; she worked to stay upright as he guided her down. He ran a hand down her face and front and side. There was not much there for him to grasp and there never would be, but she did not know this then; she only thought she was deficient in some way, or that she was not grown-up enough, and that now he knew. He had found out her terrible secret. She wanted almost to apologize. She imagined simply standing up, walking out of the room, but somehow it felt too late. She imagined curling up into a ball and asking him just to cradle her, to be still with her, to leave his hands on her, unmoving, to mother her.
And then she thought of Melanie and realized that invoking Melanie’s name would save her. It wasn’t true—it wasn’t any concern for Melanie that made her want to end what William was doing, but it felt to her at least like a valid excuse. Melanie’s my friend, she could say. We have to stop. It would not have been embarrassing to say this.
She felt William’s hand on the button of her jeans. But before she could deliver her line, the door to her bedroom opened. She punched William’s shoulder hard. The two of them struggled to sit up.
There in the doorframe was Gregory, his mouth open, his face drained of color. In his right hand he was holding the key to David’s house that Ada had given him. His left hung down limply at his side.
“What the hell,” said William. It was the same phrase he had used when Ada caught him kissing Karen Driscoll, the first night she had ever slept at Liston’s.
“Get the fuck out, Greg,” said William. But his brother didn’t move, and after a pause William stood up quickly, threateningly. He moved toward Gregory. For several beats, the two brothers stood facing one another, framed by Ada’s doorway, William head-and-shoulders taller than his brother.
Ada waited. She was certain that Gregory would duck his head and go. She had seen him do it before when confronted: in the hallway at Queen of Angels, when charged at by a peer; in the hallway at Liston’s house, when he was being persecuted by William or even, sometimes, by Matty. But now he didn’t flinch. William, still drunk, swayed slightly. And then, abruptly, he left, knocking into Gregory on his way out, surprising Ada. She did not know what outcome she’d expected, but it was not that. William said nothing before going. Not to his brother; not to her. They heard his footsteps as he pounded down the stairs. The hard slam of the kitchen door.
Ada struggled to sit up. She did not want to look at Gregory. She felt that she was now on the other side of an unbridgeable chasm from him. One of his persecutors. A traitor to her kind. She felt simultaneously ashamed and self-righteous. Why are you here, she wanted to demand, but before she could she realized the answer: It was that he had been worried about her. He had somehow noticed her absence in the house, and had come looking for her.
For several moments, neither of them moved. Gregory was the first to speak.
“Why did you do that,” he said, with a viciousness she had not expected. There was a ragged edge to his voice; his breathing was labored.
She looked up at him.
“None of your business,” she said.
“Do you like him,” said Gregory. His brow trembled; he squinted.
“I don’t know,” said Ada.
“I hate him,” said Gregory. “He’s a fucking idiot.”
Ada saw then that he would cry, and she looked away, embarrassed.
“I thought maybe you were smart,” said Gregory. “But I was wrong. I think you’re a fucking idiot too.” He was young, still. Before her eyes, he was transforming, becoming the Gregory she knew from school: the spiteful, petulant child, the small bullied boy who lashed out wildly at his oppressors. He was crying, now, but fighting it; his face was red and bunched.
“Stop it,” said Ada. She stood up from the bed. She wanted him gone, out of her house; she wanted to sleep for a week. She crossed her arms, wrapped them around herself as far as they would go.
“You don’t know anything,” said Gregory. He backed away from her as she moved forward. “You’re an idiot.”
“Get out,” said Ada, without much force. She pointed weakly out the door, toward the hallway, toward the stairs.
“Or what?” said Gregory.
“This isn’t your house,” said Ada. “Get out.”
He smiled then, meanly. “Oh, yeah?” he said. “Whose is it?”
“It’s David’s,” said Ada, and the invocation of her father’s name made her weak. What would David think of her now? She closed her eyes.
“You don’t even know your own dad,” said Gregory.
“Yes I do,” said Ada.
“Did you know he’s a faggot?” said Gregory quietly. Viciously.
It was a word that was so frequently tossed about the hallways of Queen of Angels that at first it did not shock her. And then, slowly, she registered his accusation. She looked at him.
“He’s a homo,” said Gregory. “Everyone knows but you.” He was not used to saying words like these; he was trying them out. They did not easily come to him. He had turned serious; he looked shocked by himself, slightly afraid of his own power. He stared at her. And then he turned and ran.